


In Which Much Ass-Kicking Is Commenced. Also, Crazed Cats.

by NewWonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pointy hats, Strawberry jam ftw, Water pistols are deadly when in the right hands, Whips used in a very non-sexual way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a kink meme prompt: "I just like seeing John bleed and whimper, and then turn around and massacre the fuck out of everyone, is that so wrong?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Much Ass-Kicking Is Commenced. Also, Crazed Cats.

**Author's Note:**

> It's, uh, short and somewhat cracky. Glaring inaccuracies probably ahead, sorry. And no, nonnie, there is NOTHING wrong with that.

Bloody Sherlock is never allowed to interrogate magicians in pointy hats again.

For one thing, his incessant and less-than-polite inquiries and exposures have just completely ruined the show for John and a dozen scarred witnesses.

Second, the pointy hat is actually really, really pointy, which several delicate parts of John's body can now hold testimony to.

Third, Sherlock has recently galloped off after the magician who has just been successfully proven to be a part of a human trafficking ring. Like, actually galloped off. On a horse.

And last but not least... pointy hats don't hurt nearly as much as stock whips and a prop gun loaded with real bullets.

Bloody Sherlock, dragging him to a bloody circus and then just leaving him behind to chase after a bloody magician on a bloody horse. He is the sole reason why John now is– well, bloody. And dizzy. And hurting in so many places it would take a Hecatoncheir to count them off on his fingers. And very, very close to losing consciousness, if his organism is to be believed.

John is developing a steady aversion to circuses.

There are three... four... ah, five people around him, with a murderous clown lurking in the shadows. Available weaponry includes a rubber ball, a water pistol, a flaming hoop which is no longer actually flaming but just – smelly, John's own gun kicked into a corner roughly ten steps away, and his very own bloodied tooth (Sherlock is _so_ paying for the dentist – _and_ getting a major scolding later. Only it won't be recreational in any way, shape, or form).

John is supposedly believed to be fully disabled and barely conscious. Good. Let them keep deceiving themselves for the time being (and it's not like the last part is that far from truth, anyway). A lean young whip-wielding equestrian in an extremely tight leotard is coming, presumably to check on his vitals. Right. That would be the moment, then.

It turns out that the rubber ball fits perfectly into the equestrian's mouth _and_ makes a fairly decent gag. John cuts the bloke's breath with a blow of the edge of his palm to the bloke's neck, stuffs the ball into his trap and adds a knee to his solar plexus for good measure. The scuffle is quiet enough so as to not attract any unnecessary attention. Nobody notices John's little gambit until he rises on shaky legs, brandishing a shield of a barely conscious equestrian (thank god, the chap is still able to stand, albeit unsteadily, seemingly unresponsive to any verbal stimuli, or otherwise John wouldn’t be able to manoeuvre him) and a formidable weapon of a water pistol and a whip tucked into his jeans.

Four left, then. John's eye must be already black, there's definitely a giant bruise forming on his chest, a stray horse hoof has severely traumatized his left baby toe, his crotch is still hurting because apparently murderous clowns are in no way gentlemanly or honourable, the blood from the gash on his forehead is considerably impeding the view, and the gunshot wound on his hand is bleeding no less profusely, having already soaked the jumper sleeve through and dripping on the floor, leaving small dark splatters on the wooden floor. Thankfully, this isn't his shooting hand.

The performing cats start mewling and crowding around him, having scented the blood. Apparently the animals in the circuses aren't as well fed as the owners would have liked the broad public to believe.

The cats slink between the bulky strongman's legs, yowling and whipping their tails around. It's now or never, John decides; he takes a deep breath and shoots the pistol.

It turns out that while some cats are mysteriously fond of bathing, this bunch is in no way an exception to the common rule.

Leaving the huge strongman swearing, shrieking, trying to bat and kick at a swarm of crazed cats and overall temporarily incapacitated, John rolls over to the corner where his gun rests – and barely avoids a shot from the murderous clown. The bullet chips the wall an inch from his temple. Thankfully, the clown decides to answer his burly comrade's cries for help and goes over to busy himself with dragging a hissing, scratching cat off him. That leaves two... for now.

A whip is foreign in his hand, a strange awkward weapon, and John has no time to learn wielding it. Sherlock probably knows how to swing it around, the bastard, given his ostensible prowess with horses, but Sherlock isn't here and there are spots dancing in John's eyes. So John just hurls the handle of the whip at the approaching trapeze artist.

The handle goes a bit off target, courtesy of the leather lash attached to it, but it still breaks the bloke's nose with a satisfying crunch. And apparently the trapeze artist is a sissy rendered useless by a minor wound and a bit of blood – he drops whatever iron club he's been holding and starts wandering around wailing and clutching his nose. The doctor in John wants to tell him, 'Stop, you're only making it worse,' but the battler in John gives him a mental finger and brushes him off. Good riddance.

The cat trainer comes at him with – is that a stool? – but trips on John's tooth lying around, starts flailing his hands trying to hold his balance, and steps accidentally on the hoop. The hoop slips, completely disrupting his balance, and the trainer lands face first on the floor, and John isn't feeling very generous right now so he steps on his hand scrabbling around and swiftly breaks his wrist, finally bringing the stool to the back of his neck.

Then he strides over to retrieve his gun – more like crawls on all fours, actually, but there's nobody to notice the humbling fact, the circus folks all busy with their respective proceedings, – clutches the gun and shoots the murderous clown's right hand and left knee, for further security.

Estimated opponents: none left, having been disabled to one degree or another. John shakily breathes in and closes his eyes.

He must have blacked out for a bit, because when he pries them open, his eyelids so heavy that it feels like he needs to lift them manually, Sherlock is standing over him, looking slightly disconcerted.

That must mean he's beside himself with worry, poor sod, translates John dizzily from Sherlockian to ordinary-human. He faintly remembers he's supposed to be angry with Sherlock but he can't for the life of him remember why. In fact, there's very little John can remember right now, excluding the kind of jam he used today on his pancakes. Strawberry. The thought of strawberries makes his stomach lurch.

"John?" an anxious voice reaches him dimly. "John, you alright? John, are you alright?!"

"Mm," John answers and closes his eyes, again. He's so very tired.

The last thing he feels is gloved hands, gentle on his face.


End file.
